Mechanical Animals
by Wammy's House Dropout
Summary: Maybe we weren't so human- but if we cry, we will rust
1. Prologue I: Mihael Keehl

**Welcome to the results of my ADD and complete inability to just devote myself to one project, wherein we take a trip through the unorthodox upbringing of L's successors!  
**

 **WARNING** **: Will contain series spoilers, as well as scenes of a disturbing nature. Proceed at your own discretion.**

 **DISCLAIMER** **: Death Note is the intellectual property of Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Ohbata. Please support the official release. Seriously- do it!**

 **Like this story? Hate this story? Just wanna say hi? Please leave a review! :D**

* * *

 **Prologue Part I: Mihael Keehl**

 ** _I am one of the few people who ever met L as L. When and how I met him...this is the single most valuable memory I have..._**

 **-Mello, _Death Note: Another Note_**

 _...It's late, isn't it?_

 _It must be. Everything is quiet outside, and the only light comes from the moon bouncing off the snowy ground._

 _(It's a full moon tonight. It's beautiful.)_

 _Everything hurts. My body aches like I'm gonna die._

 _(But I won't die. Probably. It's not what they want. At least, it's not what they want right now.)_

 _I'm sticky and I feel gross all over. The room smells horrid, like cigarettes and sweat. This man is snoring away beside me in the bed- he fell asleep as soon as he was done with me._

 _I half-fall off the bed onto the floor; the plush carpet is soft, but even this gentle touch sets my naked skin on fire._

 _I wanna throw the window open and scream at the heavens._

" ** _Help me!"_** _I want to cry out._ ** _"Somebody save me!"_**

" ** _Somebody save me!"_**

 _Somebody save me..._

 _Every part of me howls for me to crawl to the window and plead for help. But my limbs are lead, and my throat is dry; even if I made it to the window, I doubt I have the voice left to speak._

 _My eyes burn, and I cry bitter tears into the carpet that's causing me so much pain. I know I'm getting blood on the new white material, but surprisingly enough, I can't bring myself to care._

 _I grit my teeth, my body shrieking in protest when I get onto my knees and grope around in the dark for my clothes._

 _It's a hollow comfort, but I feel a fraction less vulnerable when I'm covered up._

 _Even though my legs are heavy and weak, I manage to stand up. I stumble to the window, pressing my hands against the cold glass and staring at that distant, uncaring moon that watches everything with detached disdain._

 _A growl makes its way out of my throat, and I glare daggers at that apathetic guardian._

 ** _Save me...somebody...anybody, save me..._**

 _Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a moonbeam glinting off the barrel of a gun poking out from the corner of the pillow of that awful, disgusting man._

 ** _What a joke. Nobody's gonna save me._**

 _It's heavier than I imagined it would be- I've never held a gun before._

 _It's easy to flick the safety off. Easier than it probably should be._

 ** _Nobody's gonna save me..._**

 _It's loud. Louder than I ever expected._

 ** _...So I guess I'll save myself._**

 _The force of it throws me backward, sending me back onto the floor._

 _My ears ring violently. The realization of what I've done sends me into a panic._

 _The front door opens. I hear an angry voice that turns my blood to ice._

 ** _I have to run away._**

 _I don't even make it to the end of the hall before I'm confronted by the livid face of nobody but my own father._

 _He yells things at me, but they don't register in my mind. Blindly, I lift the gun and shoot it once more._

 ** _I have to save myself. Nobody else will do it for me._**

 _He collapses in a pathetic heap on the ground, cursing and shouting at me, but again the words don't reach my mind._

 _Some birthday this turned out to be._

* * *

The shrill sound of police sirens pierces the bitter night air, wailing steadily to announce the arrival of a fleet of police cars. They circle around the huge, foreboding house at the end o _f the street, officers emerging with their hands hovering over their guns._

They force their way through the front door, bursting into the empty foyer.

The silence is eerie, oppressive and deafening. The officers creep warily through the pitch-black halls, a pall of unease settling over them.

"Captain!"

The youngest officer is very pale. He gestures toward an open bedroom door.

A man-maybe fifty or so- lays dead in the huge bed. Blood and brain matter is splattered up the wall from the bullet hole in the back of his head.

That must've been the source of the gunshot the neighbors called about.

One officer hangs back to deal with the carnage while the others move forward. A low groaning sound becomes audible.

When the officers turn the corner, they're greeted by another horrid sight.

The white carpet is stained and soggy with blood. Another man lay writhing on the floor, moaning and cursing and clutching weakly at the wound in his abdomen.

Pressed against the wall, battered and covered in bruises and scarlet, is a very small, very frightened, wild-eyed little boy. Gun clutched in shaking hands, the boy is pressed flat against the wall, blue eyes darting from one officer to the next, knees knocking together with the force of his terror. He aims the gun at the approaching officers, breath growing ever more pitched and panicked.

"Stay away!" He demands, his voice quavering and shrill.

"Hey, it's okay kid," the lone female officer says, masking her own unease as best she could. "You're alright. It's okay. Look; I'm gonna put my gun down- we're all gonna put our guns down." She shoots a glance at her companions. "You put yours down too, okay?"

The child watches anxiously while the officers all gingerly put their weapons down. Once they're done, he does the same, those striking blue eyes fixated on them all the while.

"There- good boy."

Tears well up in midnight eyes, and the boy's knees give way underneath him. He collapses in a sobbing heap on the floor.

"...I didn't want to-" he chokes. "H-he was gonna...I didn't want to- I swear I didn't!"

The female officer creeps closer to him carefully.

"It's alright. You aren't in trouble. It's okay."

She crouches down and takes the boy's shaking hand. The child flinches at her touch, but he allows her to guide him away from the carnage in front of him.

"Come on. You should get out of here."

* * *

Ordinarily, this late at night the hospital corridors would be quiet, while nurses and the odd doctor or two shuffled around tending to their patients and doing whatever mundane task they hadn't yet gotten around to.

This night, however, was one of those nights where the air was tense, and the nurses talked with furrowed brows and worried tones. There's also the rather rare sight of a man who was neither a nurse or a doctor, joining in the conversation.

He's a rather old man, with gray hair and a gray mustache. He says he's a social worker, here to check in on the little patient that has the nurses so troubled.

There's a small problem, however-

"-He's barricaded himself in the north supply closet and we can't talk him out!"

"Oh dear, that's no good..."

"Would it be alright if I tried to talk to him?"

The red-haired nurse jumps a foot in the air at the sudden intruder on their conversation.

Seemingly materializing out of nowhere, a rather tall, very pale, unnaturally skinny boy appears from behind the old man. Pitch black eyes peer out from beneath a wild crop of pitch black hair, far too wide and far too knowing for someone his age. His hands are crammed deep into the pockets of a thick winter coat, well-worn jeans hanging loosely from spindly legs.

"W-what can you do?" The brunette nurse asks, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

"I don't know." the boy says frankly. "But I'd like to see if I can help."

Before the nurse can process a response, the boy turns toward the old man with an unfathomable expression.

"Is that alright with you, Watari?"

"Do your best."

The boy pulls an almost skeletal hand from the recesses of his coat and knocks softly on the closet door.

"Mihael," he calls out, in that surprisingly deep voice for a child. "Are you alright?"

"Go away!" Comes the angry voice from the other side.

"Why are you hiding?" The boy asks persistently.

Silence from within the closet.

"Could you please open the door? You aren't in any trouble- I'd just like to talk to you."

"...Only if the adults leave!" Is the insistence from the other side. "I'm not talking to adults!"

The boy scratches the back of his neck, and turns toward the nurses.

"If you could please leave the room for a minute, I'd appreciate it- you too, Watari."

The nurses turn toward each other apprehensively, then toward Watari, wondering what he would decide.

"Yes, of course," the man answers. "You know what to do if you need me."

The adults vacate the hallway, the red-haired nurse casting one last worried look at that odd boy before turning the corner and following the others.

"They're gone, Mihael," the pale boy says, rapping on the closet door once more. "Could you open up now?"

The sound of heavy objects being moved around fills the quiet for a minute or two. The doorknob turns, then, after another pause, the door creeks open a fraction.

"The hell're you?" The child demands.

"You can call me L."

The door opens enough for the younger boy to peek out.

The child that peers at L from the closet is a sorry sight indeed. His blond hair is unkempt and filthy; his hospital gown hangs loosely off a body too small and too thin for his age. His fair skin is littered with bruises and gashes and cigarette burns, all looking angry and uncared for. His pretty face is fixed in an unflattering scowl, teeth bared like a small, frightened animal.

Soft and vulnerable, but vicious and unapproachable at the same time. Like a feral kitten.

Mihael's eyes are a dark, striking sort of blue that reminds L of deep ocean water. Though his shaking knees and trembling hands betray his fear, Mihael's eyes are sharp and focused, boring straight into L in a way that makes him profoundly uncomfortable.

"Why are you hiding?" L asks, gnawing on his thumbnail to vent his discomfort.

Mihael only responds with an impolite hand gesture. L ignores this.

"Are you worried someone is going to hurt you?"

The child's hands ball up into white-knuckled fists; his teeth clench so hard they might very well shatter.

"Shut up," he spits, bristling much like a cornered cat, retreating back into the closet.

L crouches down to be more on level with the child in front of him.

"Who are you worried is going to hurt you?"

"None of your fuckin' business!"

L narrowly dodges the mop bucket thrown at his head; this tiny blond boy has a surprising amount of strength within him. However, the older boy remains unruffled, and continues speaking as if nothing is wrong.

"You're going to be alright now," he says calmly. "You don't have to be afraid."

Perfect white teeth pierce Mihael's swollen bottom lip; a thin trail of blood finds its way down his chin.

"That's a pretty big promise," the boy hisses.

"I know that. But I think you'll find that I'm good at keeping my promises."

L's lips curl into a surprisingly genuine smile. He reaches into the pocket of his jacket, and pulls out a lump of crumpled foil. He holds the lump out, gesturing for Mihael to take it from him. Hesitantly, the boy obeys, snatching it quickly before drawing away again.

The lump of foil turns out to be a wrapper; Mihael tugs on a loose corner to coax it open, revealing six squares of chocolate.

"One of the nurses mentioned you haven't been eating," L says, still in that perfectly matter-of-fact tone. "That's no good. You can't have a clear head when you're hungry."

Mihael glares at the chocolate like it's some sort of grave insult.

"I didn't do anything to it," L assures him.

Mihael glances at the older boy, then at the food offered to him. He brings the chocolate to his mouth and gingerly breaks off a square.

It melts on Mihael's tongue, the sweetness playing in the back of his throat even after he's swallowed it. He hesitates a moment more, then quickly devours the rest of the chocolate, finding himself suddenly ravenous after that first taste.

"There. Feel better?"

Mihael grumbles something that L takes as an affirmative.

"If you feel up to it, I'd like to talk to you about something."

He doesn't wait for Mihael to respond before he continues.

"Your father is going to prison for a very long time- forever, if I can help it." L's tone is dark and deadly serious. "That means you're going to need some place to go. I'm sure you understand that."

There is no answer from the boy, but there's a look of understanding on his face.

"As I understand it, you're a pretty bright kid. There's a special school I think you'd be a very good fit for. Do you think you'd be interested?"

Mihael furrows his brow.

"What happens if I say no?" He asks warily.

"Nothing much," L answers, with a shrug. "I would assume they'd send you to a foster family, and things would be out of my hands from there. It's up to you."

Those words bring confusion onto the child's pretty face, like the notion of having a say in anything was unthinkable to him.

"So...if I say no, you'll leave me alone?"

"That's right."

The boy pauses again, and L can see the gears turning in his mind as he considers the offer.

"What makes me so special?" He demands. "Why me?"

"Call it intuition," the older boy says, with a shrug.

Another painful stretch of wordless tension.

"I know leaving won't change what happened yesterday," L adds, mulling briefly over his words before he says them. "But maybe if you do, you can make sure your tomorrow is how you want it to be."

Those words light a spark in Mihael's eyes; his face lights up as though this is some great revelation.

 _I get to choose. I can make my own tomorrow..._

"I'll go," he finally replies, with more certainty in his voice now.

"Good. I'll get everything sorted out for you, then. In the meantime- how about you get out of this dirty closet? It can't be good for you."

Black eyes briefly meet with blue- L quickly breaks the contact in favor of focusing on some point on Mihael's forehead. He holds out a hand, tilting his head and waiting.

After what feels like an eternity, Mihael takes that hand.

(L's hand is soft, and warm.)

His grip is uncertain. His legs are shaky and movements skittish when L leads him triumphantly out of his hiding place. He turns his head away when the nurses regard him with startled glances. He presses his tiny body close to L's, and doesn't say another word.

But Mihael's eyes are as sharp as ever.

* * *

Mihael is taken to another room to wait, while the old man with the mustache and L talk to various hospital staff in hushed voices. The tone of the staff is incredulous, sometimes angry- but Mihael can't make out what they're saying about him. He passes the time by pressing the bruises on his arm, watching them turn white before rapidly regaining their purple hue.

The clock's hour hand moves five notches before L and the old man finally return.

L hands him a bag full of what feels like clothes.

"You'd better get dressed- it's cold outside."

The clothes are nothing more than simple black pajamas, the shoes more like slippers than anything. But they're clean, comfortable and warm, so he doesn't complain.

He's led out the back entrance of the hospital, the winter air biting his cheeks and his nose. The old man ushers him and L into the back of a black car with black-tinted windows.

The exhaustion of the past days catches up with him all at once. His head lulls against L's shoulder, his eyes falling shut against his will.

L awkwardly pats Mihael's head while he falls asleep, watching the sun peek over the horizon beyond the car window.

"Merry Christmas, Mihael."


	2. Prologue II: Mail Jeevas

**Hi all! I wrote chapter two! Please enjoy!  
**

 **...And remember to tip your writer :)**

* * *

 ** _"It's boring to keep watching something that has no movement."_**

 ** _-Matt, Death Note manga_**

 _And, in other news, eighteen-year-old Joanna Jeevas is under arrest tonight, after the attempted murder of her four-year-old son._

 _Jeevas allegedly tried to kill the child by tying him in a garbage bag and throwing him out the window of the downtown apartment where she and the child lived with her mother and stepfather._

 _The child was discovered by a passerby, who saw the boy still moving and alerted authorities. Joanna Jeevas was promptly arrested and, when questioned by police, admitted to the attempted murder of her child._

 _Four-year-old Mail was rushed to Henry Ford Hospital, and is being treated for multiple fractures and head trauma. Joanna is being held on fifty-thousand dollar bond, and is scheduled to go to trial next week._

 _Joanna's mother has issued a statement saying that her daughter has struggled with drug addiction for many years, with her most recent relapse occurring mere days before the incident took place. She also stated that she does not plan to take custody of the child once he is released from hospital care._

 _We now take you to Jonathan Blake for the weather forecast..._

* * *

An elderly man with a prominent mustache knocks on the door to a tiny home. After a few seconds pass, a girl of about thirteen answers the door. She regards the man with a suspicious expression.

"You a social worker?" She asks, with a raised eyebrow.

"I am," the man lies smoothly. "Is your foster mother here?"

The girl's brow knits together.

"One second."

She turns and runs down the hall.

"Liz! There's a social worker at the door!"

After another short wait, a woman in her mid-forties with fake blonde hair comes to the door.

Elizabeth Brady. He already knows that- he always does his research before talking to anyone, after all.

"Good afternoon- my name is Quillsh Wammy. I'm here do discuss one of the children you have in your care- Mail Jeevas, actually."

Elizabeth raises an eyebrow.

"What's this about?"

"I've been sent to discuss certain- unusual aspects of his behavior. Is he available to speak with, perhaps?"

"You can try to talk to him if you want, but I doubt he'll say anything. Kid hasn't said a single word, and he's been here three months. Honestly-"

The woman leans forward, voice dropping to the hushed tone it seems all middle-aged women use when they gossip-

"-I think he might be retarded or something."

Wammy blinks, perhaps in surprise.

Elizabeth tsk's, shaking her head.

"I mean-I wouldn't be surprised- his mom was some teenage crackhead, y'know. She dropped him out a window trying to kill him- I'm sure you saw it on the news. Honestly, you'd wonder if he'd be better off if he'd have died. All he does is root through garbage and hole himself up in his room like a little rat."

The old man only nods in acknowledgment, then heads upstairs to the room at the end of the hall. He knocks on the door, and politely waits for it to open. When it doesn't, he turns the knob and does it himself.

The tiny bedroom is a disaster zone. Blankets are strewn carelessly across the footboard of the bed, rather than properly on the mattress. A handful of old Tinker Toys rest lonely in one corner. Clothes sit in a heap at the bottom of the closet. The remainder of the room is completely overtaken by wires, circuit boards and a myriad of rusted, battered old tools with which to alter them.

The boy himself is seated cross-legged in the middle of it all, pliers in hand, green eyes fixed on the depths of the ancient computer monitor in front of him from behind a pair of thick-lensed glasses. A crop of unkempt auburn hair sits in a messy halo atop his head.

"Are you Mail?" Wammy asks.

The child doesn't so much as glance up in recognition. He fiddles with a set of wires, pauses for a moment, then pulls a face.

"Are you having some trouble with that?"

Mail looks up this time, a glassy, disinterested look in his eyes. After a few moments, he goes back to his work.

"You seem to be keeping busy. Is it fun?"

A shrug.

Wammy gets down on the floor to get a better look at the child's handiwork.

"Your foster mother told me you do a lot of work like this. It's very impressive."

Mail keeps on with his work as if he isn't being spoken to. His sleeve rides up a bit when he reaches into the back of the monitor, exposing a bracelet of mottled bruising around his bony wrist.

"How did you get that?"

Another shrug.

"Well, you're a quiet one, aren't you? Do you not like talking?"

Still no reply.

"Well, that's quite alright. Lots of bright people don't much like talking."

Mail sets down his pliers, and turns again to regard the old man keeping him company. Those eyes (as bright and as green as leaves in early spring) fix him with an intense stare.

That blank, placid face morphs into a smile. Then, Mail starts giggling. Wammy raises a surprised eyebrow.

"Is something funny?"

The giggles continue to bubble out of the boy's throat. He then starts to hum; tunelessly at first, but then the melody starts to come together. Then, he starts half-singing, half-mumbling.

"...I am he as you are, he as you are me and we are all together-"

"-Oh?"

Wammy is, of course, very familiar with the tune; it's a personal favorite, as a matter of fact. But why would this boy start singing it out of the blue?

"-See how they run like pigs from a gun, see how they fly..."

Wammy can't help it- he starts smiling, too.

"Now, what's gotten into you?"

Mail keeps singing while he goes back to fiddling with his makeshift computer.

"I am the egg man- they are the egg men-"

He places a finger under his nose as a makeshift mustache, glancing again at Wammy with a sly grin.

"-I am the Walrus."

Oh. That's why.

Wammy laughs.

"You know, I think you're the first person to comment on that."

Mail rocks back and forth, still giggling.

"Now, Mail, I have a question I'm hoping you can answer for me."

The child immediately stops rocking.

"Hm?"

"See, I have a friend who does very important work. His computer is vital to that work he does, and it recently stopped working. All we get whenever we try to get into the computer is a black screen and white letters saying 'Get me out of here.' We looked into it, and it seems to him that the source of his trouble came from this house. By any chance, were you the one who sent that message?"

Those green eyes light up.

"...So it worked."

"Hm? What worked?"

Mail leaps to his feet, squealing with delight in that way only children can. He leaps to his tiny closet, dragging forth the behemoth shell of a Commodore 64 along with a heap of extra cords and wires.

"What's that?" Wammy asks, raising an eyebrow yet again.

"I made this myself!" Mail says, puffed up with pride. "Look!"

He hooks up the giant computer and boots it up, bouncing around and flapping his hands in excitement. The computer comes to life with a dull roar.

"I made this whole thing myself," Mail says once more. "You wouldn't believe the stuff people just throw away."

 _Garbage. He made this computer out of garbage._

And he's done a very good job of it, it seems. It looks like he's built up the entire inside of the computer from scratch, running an operating system Quillsh hasn't seen before (did he create _that_ himself, too?).

It's thrown together rather haphazardly, bits of wire and other odds and ends jutting out of the case. It's loud, and clunky and certainly isn't pretty to look at. But it runs beautifully, responding instantly to the boy's every input.

"Liz doesn't know I've finished this yet. She thinks I just nick the parts to be a pest, so she doesn't know I'm on the Internet. I don't think she'd be very happy if she knew."

Mail pulls up a file he'd written, and Wammy is met by a surprisingly complex wall of code. Wammy is nothing short of impressed that such a young child could so successfully lock down a computer remotely- L's personal computer, no less.

"I sent this out to a computer I scouted that seemed interesting," he says matter-of-factly. "I wrote it to encrypt all the files on the hard drive and put the message on the screen, but I didn't expect it to work."

The boy's face breaks out into a huge grin. However, it fades as quickly as it came, replace by something that may be fear.

"...I'm not in trouble, am I?"

"In trouble?" Wammy says it like the very notion is absurd. "Why would you get in trouble for something so brilliant?"

"...You mean it?"

"Of course I do. In fact, I was actually thinking that your talents are rather wasted here."

Mail cocks his head, looking rather like a puppy.

"You sent that message out for a reason. You want someone to take you away from here, isn't that right?"

Mail chews on his knuckle, then nods.

"I've been told that you've been through quite a few other homes. How would you feel if you could stop bouncing around from one place to another and settle down somewhere for good? I could arrange for you to have new parts to work with as well, so you don't have to dig around in the garbage anymore."

Mail's jaw drops.

"For real?"

"I'll tell you what- I'm willing to arrange for you to come with me, if you can get my friend back into his computer."

"I can do that! I can do that!"

"Alright then, you'd better start packing your things while I go downstairs and talk to your foster mother."

Mail darts around his room like a man possessed, throwing his meager possessions into a heap in the middle of his room. Quillsh takes his leave, going downstairs to sort things out with Elizabeth.

* * *

Things go more smoothly with Elizabeth than Quillsh could have even hoped for. She gladly signs Mail over to him without any questions- or even asking Wammy for any sort of proof that he was actually a social worker.

Still, for whatever reason, Quillsh got exactly what he came for. He helps Mail load his belongings into his car (including his beloved hand-built computer), and he's taken away without any ceremony.

It's a short drive to a small, out-of-the-way hotel. They go to the second floor, into the last room at the end of the hall.

Waiting in that room is a tall, very thin young man, talking on a cell phone in a low monotone. His dark eyes dart over to Wammy the minute he and Mail walk in.

"...I'll call you back in a moment," he says, and immediately hangs up.

"Watari. Who's this?"

Wammy nudges Mail forward.

"L, Mail here says he can help sort out your computer," he says, in a meaningful tone. "Can't you?"

Mail hangs his head, going pink from embarrassment.

"...Sorry. It was my fault," he mumbles, scratching at his red hair nervously.

The older boy crosses the room, bending over to get a better look at little Mail. His black eyes fix the child with an intense stare.

"Well. I'll forgive you, so long as you can fix it."

L gestures toward the coffee table, where his computer sits- still locked down and useless. Mail flops down on the floor, takes a deep breath, and gets to work.

In under a minute, the black computer screen flashes white, then returns to normal.

He glances, first at Watari, then at L, green eyes hopeful.

L sits beside him, in a rather odd crouching position. He clicks a few programs, just to make sure everything is okay again. He turns his head to Mail, a half-smile of disbelief curling his lips.

"You know how long I tried to fix this on my own?" He asks. "Two whole days. I'm not a stupid person, either. How'd you do that?"

Mail shrugs.

"I was bored, so I just did it."

"Hm."

"He'll be coming back to the House with us, if that's okay with you," Wammy says.

"Hmm. That sounds good to me, Watari. I should be wrapped up here in about twelve hours, so you can go ahead and make the arrangements to go back to England."

"Right."

"W-wait- England?!" Mail stammers, his head darting between the two, dumbfounded.

"Yes. Is that alright with you?"

"I-I mean- yeah, it's alright- but nobody told me-"

He shakes his head.

"-N-nevermind. Yeah, I'll go."

"Wonderful. We'll leave tomorrow morning, then."


	3. Prologue III: Nate River

**And with this, the final piece of the prologue is complete! Enjoy!**

* * *

 _ **"Keep important information in your mind only."**  
_

 _ **-Nate River**_

 _The nurses tell me I'm a miracle. They say that God has a special plan for me, and that's why I'm still here. That He's obviously got something very important for me to do, and that's why I'm still here, even though I've come so close to dying time and time again_

 _I don't believe any of it._

 _I've been hanging around waiting to die since the day I was born. I can't remember a single day where I haven't been in agony. Not a single day where I haven't been tired and miserable. Not a single one where I haven't wished that Death would hurry up and take me, already._

 _What sort of "miracle" is that?_

 _What sort of loving God would make me this way? Why am I so sick, so broken?_

 _I keep asking God, but he never answers me._

 _Nobody ever really does._

 _I've gotta keep my mind busy. It's the only way I'll keep from going insane, trapped here all the time._

 _This puzzle looks interesting. This'll distract me for awhile, I think._

 _Mom and Dad haven't come to visit me for over a week. I wonder if they forgot about me._

 _They'd probably feel better if they did, anyway._

 _Every time Mom and Dad come over, they seem mad. I wonder if they're mad at me because I haven't died yet. Or because I'm still sick after all this time._

 _Or maybe it's both._

. _..This puzzle was too easy. I wish they'd give me harder ones to put together. All the good ones are in the playroom, and I'm not supposed to go in there._

 _Maybe I can have some fun with these dominoes. I bet I could build something neat out of them._

 _There sure are lots of dominoes in this box- I wonder if I could make some of the buildings outside with them. That'd be fun, wouldn't it?_

 _click click click- one on top of the other._

 _Why's the nurse coming in? He's not supposed to be in for another twenty minutes-and who's that woman with him_

 _What do you mean, you need to talk about my parents? Why do you look so worried?_

 _...Oh. So that's why they haven't been over to visit._

 _What am I supposed to do now, though?_

 _Shouldn't I be crying? Isn't that what normal children do when they find out their parents burned to death? Shouldn't I be screaming, demanding they stop lying? Anything besides sitting there blankly, like some sort of moron?_

 _"Poor thing- he's in shock," the nurse says, in that horrible pitying tone I despise so much. He gathers me up into a hug, even though he knows I hate being hugged._

 _I wonder why it took everyone so long to tell me the truth._

 _The woman in the expensive suit talks to me for a long time. She says that everything is going to be okay (lies), that I'm going to be just fine(more lies)._

 _I wish they'd just leave me alone. The last thing I want right now is to have to talk to anyone._

 _I just want to go back to my dominoes. I just want my teddy bear. I don't need anything else._

 _I really am alone now, anyway._

 _Where's my wind-up robot?_

* * *

-"It looks like you got lucky, young man- most people in a car accident as nasty as that don't just walk away with a few broken bones, y'know!"

The boy (a skinny, pale thing with messy, dark hair) smiles.

"I do have pretty good luck," he agrees, tilting his head and gnawing on his thumbnail.

"Well, your grandfather should be finished talking to the police soon. We think you've got a concussion too, so we'll be keeping you overnight to be safe."

The paper on the exam table crinkles as the boy shifts uncomfortably, pulling a face.

"Your face is gonna get stuck that way if you keep that up," the doctor playfully scolds. "It won't kill you to rest for a night."

The doctor leaves the boy alone, to wait for his supposed grandfather to come in.

The old man looks relieved to see his charge is okay, if a bit worse for wear.

"L, are you hurt too badly?" He asks, once the door closes.

"I'll be fine, Watari," L replies. "I'll be back to work tomorrow."

"I told you it would be dangerous," Watari halfheartedly chides. "You shouldn't have gone anywhere without me."

L looks up at him sheepishly.

"Maybe you're right. I'm sorry for the trouble."

Watari gingerly embraces L, patting him carefully on the back.

"What name did you use for me this time?" L asks.

"Ellis Alright," Watari replies, with a sly grin.

"Does it have to be a pun every time?" L snickers.

"It keeps things interesting."

"I'm not already interesting enough?"

"Maybe I wouldn't have to keep making up names if you'd stop winding up in the hospital."

L tries to laugh, but winces in pain and decides against it.

"They're gonna make me stay overnight," he complains, rubbing his head. "Do I have to?"

"It's probably for the best," Watari says apologetically. "It might be a bad idea for you to go anywhere in your state."

"I only broke a few ribs and rattled my head a little," L pouts.

"And sprained your wrist."

"Fine. I'll stay, but I'm gonna complain the whole time."

"I can live with that."

L hops off the exam table.

"Where are you going?"

"I wanna take a walk around. I'll go stir crazy if I don't. You can go back to the hotel and get everything ready for us to go home- I'll be okay on my own for one night."

"Right."

Though he hesitates like he doesn't really want to leave, Watari gathers his things and leaves L to his own devices.

The stark fluorescent lights hurt L's eyes (maybe they're right about that concussion), and his battered body screams in protest with every agonized step he takes.

His mind is already buzzing with a thousand jumbled thoughts, restless and jittery without anything to focus on.

He can't get out of here and back to work soon enough, really.

He peers into open hospital rooms, taking guesses at how the people within them ended up where they are, gnawing at his fingernails while the gears in his head turn (he really wishes Watari had brought him a book).

He's so deep in his own mind that he trips over the little white bundle on the floor. White hot agony flashes through his body when the fall rattles his broken bones.

"I'm sorry!"

The heap on the floor turns out to be a little boy in white pajamas. Black eyes peer through a crop of snowy curls, concern knitting his tiny brow.

L manages a groan in response.

The little boy fumbles for the crutches that had taken him this far from his room.

"I think I'll be fine," L says, finally getting a hold of himself. "What about you? How'd you wind up on the ground?"

"...I fell," the younger boy mumbles, struggling to get back to his feet. "It's nothing."

L stands up gingerly, and offers a hand which is stubbornly ignored.

"What's your name?"

"...Nate. If it matters any."

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Nate."

Nate blinks, staring at L like he's some sort of oddity.

"Were you heading somewhere, Nate? I could help you get there."

"...The playroom."

L offers his hand again; this time, Nate takes it. The older boy helps him retrieve his crutches and stand on his own again.

"Alright, lead the way, Nate."

The playroom is fairly small, but well-supplied with various children's toys. A bright red box is filled to overflowing with stuffed animals, and there's a shelf beside the large window packed to the brim with various books.

Nate makes a beeline for the crate of multicolored blocks sitting in a lonely corner, gingerly sitting himself on the floor and grabbing armfuls of the colorful shapes and beginning to stack them in a neat row. L goes to see if anything on the bookshelf catches his interest.

"I wouldn't bother," Nate warns him. "I don't think there's an interesting one in the bunch."

Despite the warning, L browses the shelf for a few minutes, before giving up on the endeavor, and turning his attention to what was becoming a rather impressive structure.

"They used to have better books," Nate explains, not taking his eyes off his blocks. "But one of the other kids got scared reading A Study in Scarlet, so all the good ones got taken away."

"Oh, that's a shame. That book's one of my favorites."

L crouches on the floor, peering through the gap in Nate's massive block tower in curiosity.

"What're you building?" he asks, scratching his head.

Nate shrugs.

"I just wanna see how big I can make it."

L makes a grumbling sound low in his throat, then reaches for a few blocks and starts building with him. Nate pauses briefly from surprise, but continues in his endeavor.

For a few minutes, neither of them speaks, but merely enjoy each other's company while they stack the colorful blocks.

Together, they use up all the blocks in the playroom, making a wall nearly as tall as L, stretching halfway to the bookshelf. Nate half-smiles, feeling rather pleased with himself.

"Well, I bet no hospital has ever seen a block tower quite this great before," L says, a satisfied note in his voice.

The half-smile grows into an earnest grin, and Nate beams up at his new companion.

"I've never been able to make one this great before."

"Well, I suppose having someone taller helps," L quips.

Nate carefully nudges a block on the bottom to correct its angle.

"Nobody's ever helped me build before."

"Hm. That's a shame- it's pretty fun."

"Hey- I've never seen you around before. Who are you, anyway?" He asks, glancing up at his mysterious playmate. "How come you're here?"

"Oh, I'm nobody important," L answers. "I just got into a bit of trouble, and they won't let me go home because I hit my head."

L rubs the brilliant purple bruise on his forehead, half-hidden by wild black hair.

"Oh..."

Nate scowls at their block wall, frustration suddenly flooding him.

"So you probably get to go home pretty quickly, huh?"

"Well, I'll be leaving tomorrow, if that's what you mean."

"Figures."

"What figures?"

"That I finally meet someone here I can stand, and you won't even be here tomorrow."

Though it's ridiculous- Nate's just met this boy, and they've barely even spoken- the prospect of this new boy leaving makes him unbearably sad.

"Oh dear- why are you crying?"

Nate hadn't even realized the tears welling up in his eyes. He tries to wipe them away on his pajama sleeve, but more take their place faster than he can dry them.

"I-I don't have anyone," he sniffles, feeling quite pathetic. "Mom and Dad are gone- and even they were just waiting around for me to hurry up and die. I don't know what's gonna happen to me now... who'd even want a kid like me, anyway?"

"Hm."

L writhes with the awkwardness of the situation. He pulls at the back of his aching neck, wondering what he should do.

He spots one of those thousand-piece puzzles on top of the bookshelf, and grabs it, praying it'll be a suitable distraction.

"Hey, Nate- do you like puzzles?"

"Huh?"

L flops down cross-legged on the floor, and turns the box upside down beside their block structure.

"Solving puzzles keeps your mind busy," he explains. "I've never been sad while I'm putting a puzzle together."

Breath still shaky, tears still falling, Nate reaches out for a handful of little cardboard pieces, desperate to soothe the aching in his heart.

click click go the pieces as they lock into place. One piece, two, three, then four. If only I could put myself back together this easily.

L chews on his thumbnail, watching as Nate becomes absorbed in this task.

Click click click- the puzzle comes together in a matter of minutes. His wide, dark eyes become intense in their focus, so sharp it's startling.

L is right- it's a great distraction. However, it's a distraction that's over far too soon.

"Well that was quick."

"Not my fault the puzzle's too easy," Nate pouts.

"Oh my goodness- where have you been, Nate?!"

The two boys blink flatly at the nurse who's just bursted into the playroom. She scoops Nate up, a terrified look on her face.

"I've been looking everywhere for you! Haven't you been told not to leave your room on your own? You could get hurt!"

Nate pouts, but he doesn't say anything to retort.

"And _you_ shouldn't be wandering around the hospital with no shoes, young man!" The nurse chastises L. "That's dangerous, you know."

"You're right. I'm sorry."

L grins at the younger boy as Nate is carried out of the room.

"I'll see you around, Nate."

There's something meaningful in L's tone. Despite knowing that L is leaving tomorrow, though, he doesn't feel quite as sad though.

Somehow, when L said 'I'll see you around,' he sounded like he meant it.

And that helps him feel better. Just a little bit.


	4. A job like any other

**Really enjoying my time off school, guys. Like, I'm really digging this.**

 **Anyway, hope this isn't total shit!**

* * *

 **For anyone not familiar with my other stories, they tend to jump around a lot between time and place. Jumps in the timeline will be marked with this symbol here:  
**

 **~oOo~**

 **Jumps within the same timeline will be marked by a horizontal line.**

 **Alright, enough procrastinating!**

* * *

 _Beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep!_

After maybe thirty seconds of incessant beeping, a hand emerges from under the heavy blankets, fumbling around for the phone resting beside a drool-stained pillow. It presses a button on the side of the phone, stopping the device's shrill cry.

A head of disheveled auburn hair follows the hand out of the blanket, green eyes blinking blearily at the screen.

7:00

The boy lets out a great yawn, sprawling out across his well-worn mattress as he stretches.

One hand opens the news app on his phone, while the other feels around for the pair of glasses that had gotten lost somewhere in the nightstand drawer. Once the world comes into focus behind the glass, he spends a few minutes still bundled in blankets, idly scrolling through the (gratefully) uneventful news stories on his feed that morning.

Those stupid dreams again, he complains inwardly, while he not-quite pays attention to what he's skimming through. What's the point, even?

Wearing nothing but his boxers, he heads out onto the balcony, lighting a cigarette on the way and squinting as the sun makes its relentless climb over the Los Angeles skyline. The nicotine lifts the fog off his mind, but can't really take away the distant voice that still calls at him from a lifetime a million years ago, mingling with the acrid smoke that fills his lungs.

 _"C'mon, Matt! I'm bored! Turn off the damn game and let's go outside already!"_

 _"Matt! Pay attention to me already, will ya?"_

 _"...Hey, Matt? I...I think I love you."_

"Yeah right," he grumbles to himself, shoving the glowing end of his cigarette onto the railing. It extinguishes with a faint hiss; he flicks it away mindlessly on his way back inside.

Matt grabs what he's at least pretty sure is a clean shirt, and throws on a pair of jeans he's pretty sure aren't. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, he boots up his laptop, cracking open a can of energy drink to serve as his breakfast while he waits the small eternity it takes for the VPN to connect.

-He's trying very hard not to think about the lilting voice that still echoes in his head. About the sharp blue eyes and soft blond hair and pretty face that, after all these years, still haunts his dreams. About the name that, every once in awhile, still passes through his lips before he can stop it.

"...Mello…"

But he can't let himself dwell on that too much, right now. He's got more immediate matters on his mind.

Like shutting down this one pro-Kira website and making next month's rent. Do it before eight, get double the money.

It's an easy enough job, he supposes- though he's not sure why someone would offer to pay so much just for taking down a single website. But that's neither here nor there, Matt isn't the type to ask too many questions when someone's offering him money.

Besides- he wasn't gonna pass up an opportunity to fuck with the stupid people always lining up to suck Kira's dick.

As for the website itself, it proudly displayed the names, faces, and addresses of people Matt assumes the site's users don't like, with accompanying captions like _Lord Kira, please punish them._

Morons.

Matt should have the entire website shut down and scrubbed clean well before his deadline. Easy enough; though he supposes that, if Kira actually monitors sites like these, Kira is also smart enough to take screenshots, so he's not sure it'll do more than annoy some people.

(Annoying people is pretty fun, though.)

While his laptop parses out the code, he switches on his trusty old handheld game console to kill some time.

~oOo~

"Near!"

The tiny boy in white pajamas doesn't even turn his head away from the tower of dice he's building on his bedroom floor. Doesn't so much as make a sound of acknowledgement.

Teeth gritted, fists clenched, Matt bites back a sob.

"...Did you even try to get him to stay?!" he demands.

No response but the click click click of dice stacking on top of each other.

"Did you even say anything to him?! Or did you just let him walk out like it's not a big deal?!"

Still nothing.

"So you're just gonna blow me off, huh?!"

Matt finds his voice growing ever louder, until he's shouting at Near's back in frustration.

"You're a damn coward! Can't even look at me after you just let him leave!

Near still doesn't say a word, but he stops stacking dice, reaching to fiddle with a wisp of curly white hair.

"Fuck you," Matt spits, before storming out, slamming the door so hard the entire wall rattles.

The ever-watchful bell of Wammy's House dutifully chimes out the hour- eight o'clock. Normally, at this time of day, Mello would be tugging on his arm, whining that he's starving, and they should get breakfast before classes started. But instead of that, he's half-walking, half-stumbling through the halls alone, catching confused and concerned glances from everyone he passes.

His hands are shaking so badly he has a hard time getting into his own bedroom.

He throws himself across his bed, buries his face in his pillow, and screams.

~oOo~

At exactly seven fifty-three, Matt wraps up his work. Anybody trying to access the website would only be greeted by a mildly obnoxious music video.

He pulls out his phone, and texts the link to the website to the number that offered him the job.

After a few minutes, his phone vibrates.

 _-A fucking Rickroll? Really?_

Matt snorts, and types back.

Is that a problem?

 _-not particularly. It's just stupid._

A brief pause.

 _-I've got a place you can meet me to get your money._

Matt raises an eyebrow.

 _We aren't doing it digital?_

 _-Nah, I like handling things in person. Is that gonna be a problem?_

Matt mulls it over in his head for awhile.

 _Alright that's fine. Where are we meeting?_

The person on the other end sends him the address of a bar on the other side of town, along with a time. Matt is a little irked at having to leave his apartment, on top of having to get up early to get this job done. But, then again, money is money, and as long as they meet in public, he's pretty sure he won't get murdered. So, he can't see any harm in going.

For now though, he's still tired. He flops backwards onto his bed, and decides to sleep a few hours longer.


End file.
